By Aaron French

Obsession comes in all shapes and sizes. I’m obsessed with details. All or nothing.

Curiosity engulfs me. Stagnation enrages me. Life perplexes me.

All things I’ve come to know exist as a small piece in a greater system. I can’t hold a view indefinitely. I can’t accept aberration in the stars. I see souls lingering in eyes of loved ones, in eyes of jaguars, in eyes of old and young and the dispossessed.

My fingers brush along the bark of a tree and I ponder the prior reflections in it’s own ancient knowing eye. I imagine lovers for a hundred years who all the while whispered secrets under its perennial shade. I retrace my every footprint, all of them ever, watching the sum of all parts unwind from a coalesced orb into single entities where each moment beheld infinity.

My view expands, zooms out to reveal that all ripples I made have fractal consequence to not only my independent bubble but to the entire world, all humanity, all shining seas and even deep into the dark universe. I twist the kaleidoscope, reviewing each moment ever made, and I consider modest and even trivial manipulation. The mechanical framework of life’s encapsulated whole melts molten hot and resolders each gear into pitiful rearrangement. No matter how slight the change, the results are surely devastating.

All my retraced lines contain peculiar patterns. They resemble rivuleting sequences funneling water from lofty heights on down the righteous path of gravity. My spirit trickles water from somewhere mountain high and each drop follows its own painstaking course, dispersing, some drops zapped by the sun, some swallowed by soil where flowers grow, others quenching the thirst of a wolf or washing the grime from a toiling man. All things navigate along that gravitational path. Love, in all its forms, is the destination our every moment trickles inevitably towards. Love warps time and space, just as gravity. Love boils chaos into order, just as gravity. When far from love, I am formless in a void, I am nothing but a passing comet, a satellite, a detached moon. My body ages quicker, I put my soul in distress, I start taking on a pale form sapped of vitality.

If I love what I’m doing, order prevails, my nature is fully expressed, my place in the greater system is synchronized. This is the way things have always been and will be. All retraced steps diminish over a looming horizon; they take flight in the fog of long forgotten history, echoing in the laughs of mediaeval lovers, concealed in the shining self-actualization of all antecedent men and women who sought forms of love, no matter what the form was.

Cards are dealt and circumstance is an unjust birthright, yet the endless chains that far precede all that is only muddles the concept of flourishing. The past is always devouring the present so the future is all I have. The more I reflect on past endeavors the better prepared I am to intuit consequence and therefore modify the future.

I’m not stuck in one time nor constrained to one space. I redefine my past based on how these consequences unfold. I stand on the shoulders of giants.  My soul is scattered because of the rippling effect in striving to obtain all forms of love. Each drop of my moving spirit has served a purpose in myriad ways that are rarely detectable at face value. Flowers bloom and the essence of one proliferates when love is sought after, because it’s seeking after is the very thing which expresses it.

Existential crisis suggests a fault in the stars, suggests false pretense lurking, suggests the ill fated path of the doomed and the damned; but doomed and damned are just means of provocation — provocation to start anew, fresh and refined. 

The talismans guide the way. Their nuclear fusion is ubiquitous. They are objects with gravitational fervor. Obsession is the spark that galvanizes the force of love. Objects of obsession; always just beyond my grasp, always transforming, always vaporizing before my eyes, always keeping me marching on towards the enigmatic hills ahead.


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